


Dichotomy

by Wally_1931



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angel!Wilbur Soot, Angel/Demon Relationship, Attempt at Humor, Coffee, Demon!GeorgeNotFound, Domestic Fluff, Falling In Love, Fluff, Getting Together, God Complex, Going on Dates, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Moral Ambiguity, Music, No Smut, Scars, Self-Indulgent, Songfic Elements, Swearing, Wilbur has wings :), but - Freeform, it gets a tad spicy, rated for mature themes, slightly pretentious, the logistics of angel/demon society are left purposefully ambiguous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 09:35:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27468832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wally_1931/pseuds/Wally_1931
Summary: An Angel, trapped in a cage and craving chaos meets a sleepy Demon who seeks peace. They bond over their shared monotony.
Relationships: GeorgeNotFound/Wilbur Soot
Comments: 50
Kudos: 266





	Dichotomy

**Author's Note:**

> (why am i here lmaooooo i have so many WIPs i need to finish but this wouldn't let me live)
> 
> The summary and premise of this fic was inspired by a lyric from the song [Nikki](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=47pjzXF96rU) (by Forever The Sickest Kids) - though I'm fairly certain it's an original poem on its own:
> 
> _"She was an Angel craving chaos, he was a Demon seeking peace."_
> 
> Disclaimer: If either of the CCs featured here express any distaste toward fics written about them, I will take this down. Additionally, the way I have portrayed both of them is entirely based off of their 'personas'. Some pretty heavy shit is explored in this, so I am in no way intending to offend Wilbur and George with my portrayal. I've drawn inspo from multiple places, but mainly Wilbur's [100 Players](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dVmCyo7PcBg&list=PL6WHJUJ5a3FmdV1LmwWnHTK-65WiY5w0-) series. Plus George's tendency to 'sleep through' all the major events on the Dream SMP. I do not believe either of them have a God Complex in real life.
> 
> Songs Featured:  
> [Personal Jesus](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pm3sP0n7F-M) \- Depeche Mode  
> [Downhill](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TZDBIf4MMcg) \- Lincoln
> 
>   
> **WARNING:** Swearing throughout, a brief description of sexual harassment/assault (not explicit), plus an allusion to mutilation, and the aftermath of such (scars, mild trauma). Please proceed with caution.
> 
> With that, I hope you enjoy!! :D

“Large Americano, black as you can make it please.”

His voice rings throughout the small coffee shop, clear and concise as the bell that resides above the entrance. The cashier’s cheeks redden at the charming smile he pairs with it. She's a pretty little thing: light, bouncy, with a slight lisp to her words as she stumbles over his order. He's seen her the few times he's been here. She always tries to guess his order when he saunters to the register, but he ends up ordering something different every time.

The clock above the counter reads five past nine PM, time slowly whittling down until their 10pm closing. Wilbur will never understand why humans feel the need to order coffee once the sun is down – with the exception of shift workers, he supposes. But every night during this time of year, the winter chill brings a multitude of mites popping out of the woodwork. Flocking to this quaint little place like moths under a street lamp.

It's strange, but predictable.

There's frost outside the window next to Wilbur's table, and the roads outside are slowly wasting away to a barren wasteland for the street sweepers. The nightlife has yet to kick in around this part of town – just the remaining few stragglers from office buildings. Nobody seems to be game enough to brave the cold with bare skin yet. Not until they've at least had a few pre-drinks to numb their limbs.

His coffee is brought to him nine minutes after he ordered it. The steam fogs up the window beside him before the cashier has set it down. She ducks her head bashfully when he thanks her, though he knows the coffee will probably taste like shit. Not that it matters – no sense of taste and all.

He taps his finger on the saucer in time with the clock. Deep down he knows there's a _Starbucks_ a few blocks away where he can probably get the same drivel in half the time. But he doesn't actually mind it here; the background music is quiet and surprisingly decent. Not to mention he'd be frowned upon by others of his kind if he were to set foot somewhere as commercial as _Starbucks_.

A quiet laugh escapes him as Depeche Mode's _Personal Jesus_ dribbles out from the speakers overhead. It's amusing how fickle Angels can be. Many of them swore off the stuff back in the 80s, without an explanation as to why. Who knows with many of them – paranoid as they are. Maybe the devil himself pissed in the coffee grounds.

Besides, here he gets to watch people. And you never know when an interesting person might come in.

“An iced vanilla latte, please. To take-away.”

Wilbur's ears prick up at the sound of a new voice. It's mild, almost too quiet to pick up amidst the background noise. Several patrons have come and go since Wilbur ordered: some in uniform and others exuding a sickeningly pretentious energy that rivals Wilbur's own. Nothing about their orders nor any of their appearances were particularly astounding, so he’d kept his eyes to himself. Deeming the night to be yet another baseless waste of time. Until…

Stood before the counter was a man shrouded in a large navy blue coat. His scarf, a lighter blue than his jacket, was wound thick around his neck, barely grazing the closely cropped hair behind his head. Compared to Wilbur, he was short of stature – and even smaller of presence. Everything from his closed-off posture to the low cadence of his voice screamed to the effect of _‘don't notice me'._

Wilbur noticed.

Turning slightly, the stranger gives the cashier a few Pounds, laying the money gently on the counter. The movement reveals the rest of his face.

Wilbur's breath catches in his throat.

There's nothing out of the ordinary about the stranger's face. It's very blank-slate: brown hair, brown eyes, neat eyebrows. Overall nothing very spectacular. But it's the finer details, full lips, unblemished skin, and a strong jawline that catches Wilbur's eye. Each detail is so carefully procured. Giving off the impression that this person was hand crafted like a china doll, so perfect and delicate and _pretty_ that Wilbur is certain it must have come from a Devine source. 

Passively, he steps away from the counter, sidestepping out of the way of other customers. That's when Wilbur is finally able to smell him, the scent flooding his nostrils like chlorinated water.

_Demon._

He recoils on instinct, though he keeps his eyes in place. Each reluctant blink reveals a new layer of imperfection – namely the creature’s hollowed cheeks and eye bags, as dark as Wilbur's steadily cooling coffee. The scent is thick in the air now, burning lumber and pine needles, it's acrid and suffocating as it bites the back of Wilbur's throat. He's seen dozens of Demons before, close enough like this to catch their scent. But there's something different about this one. As intense and encompassing as it is, the aroma doesn't bother him. In fact, it _draws him in_.

_Fascinating._

Just like that, Wilbur's found his new plaything for the night – purely for observation of course. Perhaps a conversation too. He just wants to investigate the creature a little more, since he's never seen a Demon so alluring and… dare he say _attractive_.

Of course, within a few minutes the barista calls the Demon up to collect his order. Probably the quickest bloody service Wilbur’s seen in this stupid place. In no time at all the Demon has taken his coffee in hand, and is pacing out the door with no further comment. Disappearing into the chilly winter's night like a mirage.

Wilbur forces down half his coffee, leaving the cup behind and scrambling out the door in the most dignified manner he can manage.

Once outside, he adjusts his coat around his wings, ensuring they're appropriately slotted through the cutouts in the back. It takes a moment to adjust the garment so his pinfeathers aren't being crushed.

He keeps his wings hidden at all times nowadays – as well as the slits he has to cut into all his shirts and sweaters. It's a shame, really, considering they're a wondrous sight to see. They're powerful, spanning over nine feet wide when fully extended, and of avian descent. They’re tinged an ashen grey, as if they'd been white previously but had been bathed in smoke and soot from the carnage he'd helped to create. Back when everything was fun and everyone was terrified.

Since the dawn of the technological age, opportunities to terrorize mortals with his wings are few and far between. If he went back to his roots – some thousand odd years ago, and took a flying pass over a village to block out the sun, it would be a matter of minutes before the spectacle is plastered all over social media. _The pricks_.

He knows they’re still with him though, loyal at his back like an old friend. Invisible only to the untrained eye.

The path outside the coffee shop is congested with humans, and Wilbur has to resist the urge to knock them all down with a wave of his hand. The snow underfoot would be a plausible scapegoat.

No, he has bigger fish to fry. The Demon's scent, while diluted a bit, is still traceable in the open air. He follows it swiftly, shouldering through the crowd and recalling the face of every fucker who curses him to memory.

He follows the trail to a quieter part of town, a business district full of office blocks that have been shut up for the night. The taller buildings make it harder for Wilbur to keep track of the scent. Especially considering the Demon could have hopped on top of one of the buildings if he knew he was being followed.

He peers down a slip lane between two office complexes nearby, catching sight of a shadowy figure looming in the darkness. _Oh?_ He smiles, a human wouldn't be able to see it hidden in the shadows.

The scent grows stronger as he paces down the alley, causing his feathers to flare out and stand on end. The demon still has his back to him, seeming to have paused in the alley to test if Wilbur would follow him. They stand quietly for a moment.

“What do you want?”

There’s that _voice_ again. Wilbur’s eyelashes flutter, grinning to himself like the cat who got the cream. There's something so careless about the way the Demon talks, neutral and mild – certainly not scared like he _should_ be.

Meeting no response, the Demon turns around slowly. Gracing Wilbur with a view of his face once again.

Here, in the darkness, the imperfections in the Demon's features are far more noticeable. His skin appears sallow, and his entire face looks gaunt with the shadows hollowing him out. He looks far more akin to the Demons Wilbur is used to now.

This one must be _hungry_. Or anemic.

He feels his wings twitch at the sight.

Very briefly, the Demon's dark eyes flicker behind Wilbur, returning back with an odd mixture of clarity and tiredness.

“You're here to collect me,” he surmises. Drawling in and accent that's far too refined for his kind, identical to Wilbur's own. “I haven't broken any rules, I haven't tipped the balance.”

Wilbur barely contains a laugh, _he can see my wings._ He's _certainly_ underestimated this little creature.

“No,” he takes great delight in watching confusion cloud the Demon’s irises. “I'm not here to vanquish you or take you in – I’ve already met my quota for this year.” It's true, he'd managed to vanquish an entire following of Asmodeus wannabes earlier in the year. Very messy and very time consuming. The haul should have bought him _several years_ of spare time, but alas.

The demon just stares at him for a few long moments, bored, tired – if a little confused. But he barely flinches when Wilbur steps forward, holding a hand out for him to take. “I'm Wilbur,” he says, in lieu of an explanation. “What's your name then, Demon?”

After a moment of deliberation, a hand clasps around Wilbur's own. A slight pressure against the supple palm of Wilbur's hand. “I'm George.”

Laughter punches it's way out of Wilbur's lungs. “ _‘George’_ , really?” He wheezes. They part from their handshake as he continues. “You couldn’t have picked a more intimidating name for yourself?”

Despite his ridicule, George doesn't react with aggression; merely rolling his eyes and releasing an exasperated chuckle. Like he truly doesn't care what Wilbur thinks of him, but is willing to return the conversation regardless.

“When I fell, _‘George’_ was a pretty popular name, so.” The demon shrugs, either not seeing how the statement sends Wilbur's brows shooting skyward, or pretending not to notice. He's a _Fallen_. That makes far more sense than whatever Wilbur had thought up – the way he'd noticed Wilbur's wings, the accent. Even down to his facial construction. “Besides, you can't talk,” George adds, cutting through his train of thought. “ _‘Wilbur'_ sounds like an 18th century pagan boy.”

It's a lame joke, but the delivery is top-notch. All of his sentences so far have been smooth and borderline sarcastic, giving off the effect of an almost deadpan pattern of speech. Wilbur likes it.

Once he's done snickering, he levels the Demon with an open expression. Turning and gesturing to the entrance of the alley with a tilt of his head. “Walk with me.”

Surprisingly, his invitation meets no resistance. The Demon simply shrugs before falling in step beside Wilbur, taking a sip out of his artisan to-go cup. Wilbur shudders, he can _smell_ the sweetness permeating through the evening air. The ice rattles against the inside of the cup as they walk.

Conversation comes easy between them – but that's always been the case for Wilbur. He prides himself on his ability to uphold conversation with a dead fish at three AM in seven different languages, after a few bottles of wine. Social interaction was an art form, and Wilbur has a gift. What surprises him is just how well the Demon can talk, reciprocating the conversation quite keenly for someone who looks about to keel over in a strong gust of wind.

“When's the last time you ate?” Wilbur asks as they weave through various throngs of humans. Ensuring not to let any of them touch his wings. “Isn't that a regular thing you should be doing?”

George lags behind momentarily as a Hens party emerges from a restaurant nearby, sweeping him up and blocking him from Wilbur's view for a few moments. He waits on the edge of the pavement for him, watching the Demon take an entirely pacifist route through the crowd instead of just barreling through them like Wilbur would. When he catches up, his face and voice still hold the same dry apathy as before: “Yes, generally all beings tend to eat regularly.”

“You look like reheated cat shit.”

“Don't flatter me,” he scoffs, gracing Wilbur with a whisper of a smirk. “It's been a while, I guess.”

“Mhm,” Wilbur hums, withholding the accompanying mutter of _‘clearly'_ with great difficulty. He steers them along the next street corner, heading to an approximation of south west away from the city center. It's funny, he's seen millions of different cities and civilizations in his time since Creation, and yet all the low-life cretins tend to gather in all the same places. The buildings grow more decrepit and the air gets murkier. Christmas lights that lined the merry streets of the shopping district are replaced by busted out neon signs and flickering halogen globes.

On their way they get to talking about the lives they've lead amidst immortality. Wilbur's story is the same as many others: roam the mortal plane, search for a vassal, vanquish the occasional Demon. Though the flicker of intrigue in the Demon's eyes doesn't go unnoticed once Wilbur starts to explain is _other_ interests. Clearly, he enjoys exploration. But it's the things he can observe and learn about in those various places that gets to him the most. He _loves_ seeing how any creature – human, Devine, Demonic, whatever – reacts to certain outcomes or actions. He _craves_ the power it gives him. To decide what happens to them; if he should fracture and reshape their little understanding of reality, or leave them alone altogether.

That power is what keeps him coming back to the humans, back to the coffee shop. It's what drove him to follow the Demon down that alley. It's sickeningly addictive.

But, like all Good things, the humans have to go and ruin the fun. Similar to the dilemma about his wings, fears of exposure and mass hysteria have sent the ones in charge upstairs into a frenzy. They've cramped down on interactions between Devines and humans, putting all Angels on a ‘look but don't touch' basis for the foreseeable future. Because of this, Wilbur has resigned himself to monotony. Never able to get in and play with his own two hands, just observe. It's exceedingly boring.

Because of the humans, he’s now not only flightless, but _caged._

The Demon follows along with his little story quite well: nodding at the appropriate times and interjecting with further questions if needed. There's something so amicable about the way he just goes along with everything – from the conversation itself, to the way George had just agreed to follow Wilbur without question. The latter would tend to think that George was a pushover, but once the Demon begins to recount his own story the thought is quashed altogether.

After he fell from grace several hundred years ago, George had navigated through undead life like a man renewed. He'd lived recklessly, loved unabashedly and reaped all the rewards of immortality for the first century or so. But very quickly he began to realize that this new life he'd been given was actually closer to a living hell. All his lovers came and went in the blink of an eye, and any cheap thrill he could get was mediocre at best.

“There's only so many poltergeists you can unleash before it gets a bit… stale.”

Wilbur had let out a genuine chuckle at that. They round another corner before he finally spots what he'd been searching for: the building is tucked away behind several others, with a neon green sign posted above the door. Live music and cigarette smoke leaks out from the entrance, Wilbur nods to it. “C’mon. Let's get you something to eat then.”

The bar is as seedy and second-rate as Wilbur had expected. All the patrons are overwhelmingly male, and they all speak in a manner that would make a sailor blush. From convicted crims to unidentified drug dealers, this place houses the nastiest and most expendable of them all.

Surprisingly, he and George aren't out of place as they sit down and shuck off their winter coats. A few of the men are still wearing business attire from a slow day at work. Nobody pays either of them any mind as they order their drinks: Wilbur a strong draught beer and George politely asking for a whiskey, neat, and a packet of crisps.

_Now_ there _are those typical Demonic taste buds._ Wilbur snickers to himself, thinking back to the sugary, iced abomination George had valiantly finished on their way over here.

While they settle into their drinks, Wilbur has time to ponder their conversation a little more. It sounded to him like the Demon had burnt himself out too quickly: each of his conquests being short-lived and disappointing. He suspects _that's_ the reason why George so passively agreed to tagging along with Wilbur – and why he wasn't afraid of the Angel in the first place. Apathy has made a home within him, and Wilbur thinks that he truly doesn't care if something bad happens to himself. Possibly even _invites it._

In the corner of the bar a simple, three-man band is jamming away. Filling the otherwise rancid place with an upbeat atmosphere with a hint of grunge. Wilbur watches the lead guitarist, observing how skillfully his fingers pluck the strings as he takes routine sips of his beer. Out the corner of his eye, he knows the Demon is watching him.

“You play?” he asks eventually, drawing Wilbur's attention back to him. The latter ponders the question for a moment.

He'd like to say no. Like to think that something as menial as music and guitar is utterly beneath him. But he supposes manipulating the strings of an instrument is no different to that of a person - he's certainly played great symphonies on both throughout the years.

His eyes grow fond, recalling the faces of all the little children who used to gather to watch him play. A memory he hasn't stopped to think about for centuries.

A sigh as he shakes his head. He knows better than to reminisce – lest he runs the risk of getting attached.

“Have you ever possessed someone before, George?” he says in stead, forcing his tone into something light and airy.

“No,” the demon shudders. “Not my thing.” Wilbur hums. _Odd, i_ f he were a demon that's the way he'd probably go, to be completely honest.

He takes a moment to regard the Demon. Even on the swivel chair against the bar he still looks petit, alternating between nibbling on the crisps and taking large gulps of his whiskey. His throat shifts with every swallow: captivating without even trying. Wilbur can't help but want to find out what, exactly, the Demon's _‘thing'_ is.

Suddenly, George's eyes flicker to the outer edge of the bar where a man in his forties has been cradling an entire bottle of _Jack Daniel's._ While he doesn't catch all of it, Wilbur glances around in time to see him leaning in close to one of the female staff members. Whispering something in her ear as he attempts to run his hand beneath her skirt. She pulls back, batting his hands away before slapping him. The action incites the man's anger, hurling vile and repulsive promises at her retreating back until he's blue in the face. The music plays on.

Nobody pays any mind to the encounter, except he and George. Even now Wilbur doubts anyone can hear her sobbing in the cooler. Granted, that does take supernatural hearing to pick up.

George is still staring at the man after a few minutes. But his expression has changed from its usual blank slate: eyes hazy with dilated pupils, the expression portraying an emotion Wilbur can’t quite place. At least not until the Demon wets his lips with a flick of his tongue, his eyes track the movement as Wilbur smirks with understanding. It’s a look of _hunger_.

Looks like the Demon's just found his next meal.

***

They wait until the early reaches of morning for the man to leave, gathering up his limited possessions and stumbling out into the frigid morning air. It's easy for the pair to find him after they've rugged up in their coats.

As curious as he is, Wilbur doesn't watch the Demon eat. Something tells him it would be rude to gawk. He feeds in a slip behind the bar, backing the man into a dark corner behind a couple bins. Wilbur stands watch at the entrance, his back turned to the affair.

It's over in a surprisingly short amount of time, the Demon shuffles to the mouth of the alley and wordlessly accepts the napkins Wilbur is holding out for him. He's a very clean eater. It only takes two or so napkins before all the blood is wiped away from his mouth.

The body they leave behind is unusually put-together. Nothing like the ravenous creatures Wilbur has encountered in the past – the ones that feast and pillage until there's barely enough left for the coroner to identify as human remains. Wilbur doesn't even think the man is _dead_.

“Soul,” George clarifies, his voice rough and gravelly. He leads the way out of the alley with his face slowly molding back into its usual mask of indifference.

Before Wilbur joins him, he conjures a set of razors. Placing them diligently beside the bins. He doubts anyone will find him here, but you can never be too careful.

The Demon's scent is stronger when Wilbur returns, likely a result of the meal. It invades his nostrils and curls it’s way into his chest. Making a home there as it if it belonged. It remains after they part ways: Wilbur turning to him with a curt “Catch you, Demon.” that's returned with a nod. It’s still there when the sun rises, gracing this fickle world with her warmth and slicing through the winter chill.

***

It doesn't go away.

It’s a week after his encounter with the strange Demon, and Wilbur still can’t shake his smell. Probably serves him right for associating with an unclean being – but in his defense, he thought a conversation would be enough to curb his curiosity.

He'd been wrong.

He can't explain it, but no matter how _boring_ and terribly _vapid_ the Demon may appear, Wilbur finds himself all the more interested. He _wants_ to see him again. _Wants_ to hear his stories and see him engage in little passages of life.

Maybe it's because they’re the same: both trapped in this mundane cycle for the foreseeable future. With nobody to bond over it with but each other. But then again, they have their differences. While Wilbur is ambivalent and uncaring, it mainly only applies to the human's feelings. He cares for chaos, chases the power it gives him. And inevitably that's what separates him from George.

George is completely vacant and apathetic. His laugh is as hollow as his disposition towards life. This Demon, fallen from grace and trapped in a life of monotony, feels nothing. Cares for nothing. And quite possibly _is_ nothing. His entire being screams as much, chanting it like a mantra:

_Empty, empty, empty-_

Midway through the week while he's drifting his way through the city, he finds George again. Magnetized to the Demon like the humans are to a decent Wi-Fi connection.

He spots him seated on a bench, nestled in one of the quieter ends of a local park. His eyes are closed and he's scratched out – basking in the unusual December sunlight with his head tilted back. As Wilbur approaches, he observes him for a moment. Watching his chest rise and fall as he soaks in all the warmth he can get. _Like a snake_ , his mind provides, though he supposes that's only half true. Some Demons _are_ descended from snakes, but the Fallen are merely flightless birds.

_A duckling, perhaps?_ George doesn't move as Wilbur draws near. No, a baby bird is too innocent.

He settles down on the bench beside the Demon, the movement drawing him out of his slumber with a soft noise. Questioning.

Wilbur doesn't suppress his smile. _A cat, all curled up next to a windowsill._ The image suits the Demon quite well.

Blinking himself awake, George sighs heavily and his lips stretch into a lazy smile. “You.”

He'll never admit it, but the mumble sets a strange feeling in the pit of Wilbur's stomach. All light and floaty like a fucking schoolgirl. “Is this what you do all day, Demon?”

He adjusts himself on the bench, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“Pretty much.”

The admission boarders on self-deprecation, yet Wilbur can't help but agree with the sentiment.

They sit and chat for a while, exchanging stories and light teasing as the world moves on around them. Wilbur likes this, how easy it is to just dwell in the moment. He's never found company quite like this before.

By around mid morning a woman in her thirties walks by them. The little dog at the end of her lead lunges toward the bench as she passes by, kicking up quite a fuss – much to her horror. It barks at them, drowning out her reprimands as it tests the limits of its pink studded collar. Eventually, she gets it under control, leading it away and calling out to them as she hurries along.

“So sorry! She's never carried on like that before.”

Wilbur smiles politely at her, following the path until his eyes land on a frozen lake at the center of the park. It's been set up as an ice skating rink for the holidays.

It gives him an idea.

“C'mon,” he pats George's knee. “Let's get some coffee into you and we can have some fun.”

The Demon perks up at the promise of coffee, but by the time they round back to the park and towards the ice rink, his footsteps falter. Questioning Wilbur's definition of _‘fun'._

“Don't tell me,” Wilbur drawls, circling his hand around George's wrist. “All these years and you've never been _ice skating?”_ He chuckles when the Demon narrows his eyes. “And here I thought _you_ were supposed to be the fun one.”

“I just don't see the point,” he mumbles, watching the people on the lake. When they get in line he lowers his voice to barely above a whisper. “It looks hard, and falling looks like it'd hurt.”

_Aw._

Wilbur moves in close, brushing his chest against George's side and lowering his voice. It's a deep rumble in his chest when he speaks right into the Demon's ear: “I'm sure you'd know a lot about _falling,_ wouldn’t you Angel-face?”

_That's_ how he gets to him. The Demon's posture stiffens beautifully as he turns his head to level Wilbur with a stare. Something is simmering beneath the surface, suppressed under all the layers of apathy. It makes his eyes twinkle a bit – something akin to _challenge._ “Fine,” is his only reply. But Wilbur hears the intone underneath:

_You're on._

***

The Demon is _terrible_ at ice skating.

He spends the first twenty minutes of their one-hour session desperately gripping the wall like a lifeline. Any time a child needs to make a pass he politely skids away from it a fraction, faffing about on the borrowed skates until somehow he’s made his way back to the wall. How he hasn't toppled over yet from overbalancing, Wilbur will never know.

Eventually, he tires of watching the Demon make a tit of himself, and decides to pity him. Skating up beside him and taking his arm, folding it under his own. After a bit of rearranging, he manages to coax George away from the wall a bit. But at the expense of an iron grip around his arm.

“Loosen up,” he attempts, but George is not to be reasoned with. The grip only gets tighter as they stray farther from the wall. Wilbur rolls his eyes. “Give me your hands.”

Little by little, he's able to pry George away from where he'd been koala'd to his arm, taking both the Demon's hands into his own. After standing suspended there for a few seconds, he let’s go, watching George panic and slip. Landing in with a clutter on his ass.

_“Fuck,”_ he groans, peering up at Wilbur with a questioning glare. “Was that really necessary?”

Wilbur folds his arms across his chest, feeling very much like a mother who's scolding her child. “Yes; you've fallen down, and now you know what it's like. There's nothing unexpected for you to be afraid of anymore.”

His speech is met with an eye roll, but eventually George holds his hand out. “Arsehole.”

The process of helping him up begins and ends relatively smoothly, save for a few hiccups where he slips. Once he back on his feet he refrains from latching himself onto Wilbur, settling to just weave their hands together with their fingers intertwined.

After that, Wilbur is able to guide him through the learning process verbally. Leaning in close when he does something right just to whisper praises in his ear – relishing the way his cheeks redden.

He doesn't care how it looks from the outside when he steadies George with a hand on the small of his back. He doesn’t care about the elderly lady glaring their way when they finally skate in tandem, laughing giddily as George finally gets the hang of things. He's aware that there's no point to this, that this is all very frivolous of them as supernatural beings: laughing and leering like this. But for once in his existence, Wilbur finds that he doesn't care.

Not when George's eyes light up like that, glimmering in the midday sun with a renewed sense of energy.

Not when George finally manages to skate a circuit on his own, drifting back to Wilbur with a self-satisfied smile.

When they meet in the middle, Wilbur's hands find a home on George's arms. Caging him in so easily that it makes him feel _protective_. His eyes are drawn ever downwards to the smile still gracing the Demon's lips, the skin stretched to white.

He kind of has the urge to bite them.

The supervisor whizzes by, alerting them that their time is up. Wilbur glares at his high-vis vest as George leads them to the exit.

***

The third time they run into each other is not a coincidence. One minute Wilbur is drowning his sorrows with a bottle of red, and the next George is seated beside him in the nightclub booth. Blinking at him expectantly.

“F'the record, there was like-" He inspects the bottle, feeling the remaining liquid slosh around inside. “ _-three times_ more wine than this in the bottle when I called you.”

“How did you get my number?” George asks through a smile, his voice- _his voice-_ making Wilbur numb all over. He cradles the bottle like an old friend, looking at the Demon through the hair now falling into his eyes.

He allows himself a very private giggle. “Magic!” That's a lie. He can’t use his Angel perks while drunk - he'd actually scoured through the phonebook behind the bar.

“You're a fucking mess.”

It's mumbled under his breath, the Demon taking some napkins out of a dispenser nearby and wiping the table. _Oh._ Wilbur hadn't realized he'd split any. Or maybe the table was sticky before he came. They're always sticky in places like these. “Why are you here?”

Wilbur sways on the spot for a moment, before realizing that the question was for him. “Oh,” he says dumbly. “Just… _Angel business_ – you know how it is. The pressure- it… the voices they, get too much sometimes. Looming down on you from upstairs, you know? Never bothering t'come down ‘ere an see how shit everything is for themselves. _Fucking cowards_.”

“Yeah,” the affirmation is so small yet means so much. “Fucking cowards.”

Slowly, the bottle is removed from Wilbur's grasp, replaced by a glass of water after a few seconds. He drinks it, but only because George tells him to. In that soft, unassuming voice of his.

“Y'know the good thin’ about you, Gog- Gro- fuck. _George?_ ” He continues after he hears a non-committal hum by his side. “The good thing about you is that… _you're empty_. You're so _void_ of anything that you actually-" A hiccup. “You _understand._ Me ‘n you, we aren't that different – I mean, _I_ don't care about anyone because they're beneath me but you… you’re… D'you know what I mean?”

The silence after stretches on for so long Wilbur begins to wonder if he'd said the wrong thing. Maybe George is weighing up the pros and cons of ending Wilbur where he's slumped. He's about to start apologizing – which he _never does_ – until George releases a resigned sigh. Looking him up and down. “We should get you home – where do you live?”

A grin. “Already wanna take me home, Georgie~?”

_“Wilbur.”_

“Fine,” he sighs. “I don't have one.”

Neat brows furrow above dark eyes. “What?” George asks.

“I don't have a house – not _here_ anyway. Having one here would mean I'm attached.” And it's not like supernatural beings _need_ to sleep - it's more of a stylistic choice on their behalf. He waves his hand, wrist limp. “Just gimme a half hour or so.” _The perks of Angel sobriety,_ the thought makes him laugh out loud. That should be the title of his autobiography.

“Okay,” George says simply, folding his hands in front of him. The way he says it gives the impression that everything will actually be okay. Wilbur thinks it will be, so long as the room stops spinning soon.

He stamps his foot, trying to keep the ground in one place. “D'you have a house, George?”

“I have an apartment,” he shrugs, eyes vacant. “It's nothing special.”

“Lemme take you back there when I can walk? ‘feel bad for making you come here – no funny business though.”

That yields a laugh, chiming through the small space and straight to Wilbur’s heart.

“Okay, no funny business.”

***

It feels so good to fly again.

He still can't believe George agreed to this: allowing Wilbur to fly them over the city in the frigid open air, back to his little nook apartment on the outskirts of town.

The wind beneath his wings feels _so good_ – there are no fancy words in the world that can describe it. His wings aren't even strained despite having not been used in a while, even with the added weight. George's legs are wrapped around his torso, and he's currently laughing breathlessly into the crook of his neck.

The city lights below them are almost like a labyrinth of artificial stars. He takes an updraft to bring them higher: they can almost see the entire span of the city from one end to another. If they went any higher they'd be amidst the clouds.

When they land – far away from any congestion – their ears and cheeks are grazed red from the cold. George leads them through the neighborhood, stopping before an unassuming apartment building. Wilbur assumes this is his place.

They’re silent for a few moments, just awkwardly staring at one another on George's doorstep. The Demon looks quite good in this lighting, especially since he's not malnourished. But his face is unreadable. Wilbur thinks he can see longing in his eyes, but that might just be his ego talking.

“Well then,” he announces into the night. “Goodnight Angel-face.”

Even to his ears it sounds stilted, like he doesn’t really want to leave. Which is entirely _stupid_ because, what else could they be doing?

“Goodnight, Wilbur.”

That should have been it. It _was_ it: he starts down the street, intending on footing his way back to civilization. He barely makes it ten paces down the street before he halts. Feeling the Demon's eyes on his back.

Then, all of a sudden, he's making his way back. Marching to George's doorstep, impulsive and mindless – like a fucking dog. He'll berate himself about this later.

Slowly, he crowds in close. George doesn't back away or tell him to stop, so he takes that as a good sign. Still, just the be sure, his mouth runs before his brain can catch up. “Can I kiss you?” he asks, still breathless from the flight. “Just…” he hesitates. Just why? Why is he doing this? Why does he _want_ to do this?

“Just to see… what it's like,” he finally settles on that, his voice barely above a whisper. They’re so close it doesn’t even matter. So close, he can feel George's breath on his skin when he replies:

“No funny business?” The other leans in, their mouths are almost touching – Wilbur just has to lean down and-

He swallows. Holding himself back until he's given the word. A man so used to taking without asking, reduced to _this_. “No funny business,” he assures, a hint of humor in his voice.

A few, _agonizing_ seconds pass by while the Demon ponders. Until, finally: “You can.”

And there it is.

It's chaste at first : Wilbur bringing his hands either side of George's face and leaning down a fraction. Just enough for their lips to catch one another for a moment. When he pulls back slightly, it's George who chases him. Pulling him back in long enough for both of them to _taste._

Smoke and pine. Like a fucking _forest fire_ in his lungs when George swipes his tongue against his bottom lip, capturing it between his teeth soon after. It gives Wilbur the green light to move his hands, sliding one of them down his chest and tucking the other one under the Demon’s chin, deepening the kiss as a shudder sweeps through his body. The way they move, the way they're holding each other, Wilbur feels like he's flying again.

They're breathless once they part, taking a moment to just breathe the same air. With one final peck, Wilbur pulls away. Admiring the Demon’s now red and swollen lips – his masterpiece.

The moment feels too raw and tender for words, so he merely nods once before walking away. Feeling eyes trace the length of his back the whole way down the street.

***

They keep seeing each other, _on purpose_.

Christmas and the entire wet season comes and goes in the blink of an eye, and they celebrate the change of season by doing shots together on George's beat-up couch.

Some weeks they spend every other day with one another, some weeks not at all. The arrangement works for both of them, or at least Wilbur thinks so. It allows them the freedom to isolate – and for Wilbur to flush out all the absurd feelings that are incited by the Demon's presence.

Some days they spend their time talking, pacing their way around the city while discussing a range of different topics. Others they opt to sit back and people-watch, contented to just be in each other's presence and trade the occasional jab between them at a complete stranger.

On the odd occasion, Wilbur will suggest they go somewhere. And George will agree no matter where it is. He's almost always sleeping whenever Wilbur happens upon him – just like at day in the park. Leading him to wonder just what the Demon gets up to while they aren't together.

Neither of them bring up the kiss; it will forever be marked in Wilbur's mind as a brief lapse in sanity. He doesn't even think about it that often.

At least that's what he tells himself.

Despite spending a shocking amount of time with George (far longer than Wilbur has ever spent with any of his investments), he still feels as though the Demon is keeping him at arm's length. He never reaches out first, never eager to share anything too personal, and ninety percent of the time his face is still plagued by that apathetic expression. Only a few times has Wilbur ever seen it crack. One of them being directly after their flight over the city: something had lingered there beneath the surface for a moment. Something soft and subdued.

Wilbur wants to _break it._ Wants to see him laugh and cry so genuinely he's indiscernible from the humans he feasts on. Wants to see him fulfilled.

It's a pipe dream, yes. And completely immoral. But it's the sentiment Wilbur carries with him whenever they meet up.

“Let's crash a concert.”

They're in George's apartment: a shitty little nook on the fourteenth floor. The Demon is sprawled out on the couch with an arm draped over his eyes – it’s so small his feet dangle off the end. Wilbur has his back to him in the kitchen, fixing himself some tea from George's limited supply. The latter hums at him without bothering to look up. “Okay,” he mumbles eventually, stifling a yawn.

Satisfied with his brew, Wilbur taps the teaspoon against the edge of the mug once before dispensing it into the sink. For how overwhelmingly shitty this place is, the Demon actually keeps it very neat. The entire apartment is open-plan save for the bathroom, and the only cushioned surface is the couch. No bed. Wilbur was mystified how the Demon is able to sleep so easily on it when he first lays eyes on it.

They get ready to leave soon after Wilbur finishes his tea, regarding the demon flatly when he realizes he intends to go out in the _same outfit_ he'd just been napping in. It's returned with a dubious eyebrow raise. “What?”

“You have drool on your shirt.”

Confusion wells up on his face quickly at that, his nose crinkling cutely as he inspects his plain white tee. “Oh,” he mumbles – Wilbur has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. He rubs at it a bit before shrugging. “It blends in.”

_Absolutely not._ Wilbur rolls his eyes, dragging the Demon away from the entrance to begin rummaging through his drawers. He really shouldn't be surprised to find _even more_ plain white shirts – some with various graphic patterns. As well as one, two, thr- _four_ of the same plain hoodie in different colors.

“Fucks sake,” Wilbur rubs his temple. “We're going to a _concert,_ George, not a bloody Tescos.”

“Yeah _okay_ Mr. Fashion Designer – you dress like a Mormon ninety percent of the time.”

He releases an affronted noise at that, glancing down at his chosen attire: black skinny jeans (ripped artfully – as is all the rage these days), and a white collared shirt peeking out under a maroon sweater. The cut of his jumper and the slim fit jeans does wonders for his legs. Makes them look like they go on for miles.

He turns back to George. “I will _not_ be seen out with someone wearing a shirt from the discount rack at ASDA.”

“Well that's pretty much it… so.”

Wilbur’s shoes barely make a sound as he stomps across the carpet towards George's closet. Inside is the navy blue coat he'd worn when they first met, and nothing else. The jacket is actually quite lovely – nice and thick material, and a flattering color. But the weather no longer calls for it.

Moments pass as he pretends to rummage about in the Demon's closet, backing away slowly once he's done. With a grin, he emerges completely from behind the door, brandishing a hanger while glancing sheepishly at George. “Ta-da!”

So perhaps he'd used his Angel perks to conjure up some better clothes – but it’s basically only for the top half. Since he supposes the Demon's straight-cut, dark wash jeans are moderately acceptable. Pressed to perfection, a black button up shirt is draped over the hanger in Wilbur's grasp. George eyes it with mild interest.

“Convenient,” he admonishes, the sarcasm isn’t lost on Wilbur. “You could ruin the economy doing that.”

He shoves the hanger lightly into George's chest. “What the tax collectors don’t know won't hurt them. Now change.”

Soon enough he has, emerging out of the bathroom in his new shirt. Wilbur finds it a bit odd that he'd hide away in a different room like that, just to change a shirt. But he's quickly distracted by the mastery of his own fashion sense.

The shirt looks great: fitting perfectly in all the right areas. It isn't too tight across his chest, and Wilbur admires how tapered it makes his waist look. Job well done.

Eagerly, he awaits the Demon's verdict. George shuffles on the spot awkwardly for a moment, presumably nervous under Wilbur's scrutiny. Once he does speak up, his voice is only half teasing. “It's almost like you _want_ me to dress like a Demon.”

The assumption makes Wilbur laugh, relieving the tension of the charged moment entirely.

“Dark colors look good on you,” he admits casually. “They bring out your eyes.”

George remains quiet at that, only moving to play with the hem of his new shirt. The gradual tilt of his head reads to Wilbur as slightly coy. He moves them along quickly, before he's driven to act on all the thoughts that have been rushing through his mind since the Demon emerged from the bathroom.

“Let's go then.”

***

The band they end up seeing is amateurish and a bit whiny, but their skill with their respective instruments is enough to drown out the sub-par vocals. The lead guitarist in particular is very skilled, weaving her way through complicated riffs despite her hand barely spanning the size of five frets. Their original pieces are all ambiguous love songs – and judging by the amplitude of rainbow flags and body paint amidst the audience, their fan base is almost exclusively queer.

They find themselves by the bar toward the end of the first set, getting tired of standing on the edge of the mosh pit like a pair of dickheads. Wilbur decides to steer away from the alcohol for tonight – ever since that phonebook incident at the club he always gets the urge to fly again. And is always disappointed when he talks himself out of it.

George spends the majority of the time gazing out into the crowd, almost as if he's mystified by all the chaos. The smokey haze and strobe lights dance across his skin, and Wilbur doesn't have to wonder for very long if he's the only person who sees how delectable it makes him look.

During the set break a young woman and her partner traverse their way to the bar for refreshments, stocking up the slosh in their plastic cups near to where George is stood. The taller of the two eyes him for a moment before speaking up.

“Hey,” her hand is slung low across her girlfriend's hips, and when she speaks her words slur a little. “You two look sooo cute together yeah? All matchin' and shit.”

Wilbur smirks as George stumbles over a simple ‘thank-you’. His cheeks are still red by the time the two girls have rejoined the party.

He leans over to gloat a bit, pressing up into George's space enough to catch his familiar scent. At first he'd been slightly miffed: their chosen fashion proving to be far too preppy compared to all the crop tops and booty shorts. But there were a few other plebs dressed similarly – and now a mortal has confirmed they scrub up quite well regardless.

“What was that you were saying about dressing _‘like a Mormon'_?”

George gives him a side-eye. “I still stand by that.”

A chuckle. “Doesn't matter now,” he gloats. “My fashion sense is Lesbian Approved.”

George hums distractedly, though it’s almost undetectable beneath the ruckus of the crowd– the next set has just begun. “You really like music, don't you Wilbur?”

The question is innocent enough, yet Wilbur finds himself hesitating. He hasn’t shared much about this part of himself. George hasn't brought up anything music-related during their chats since Wilbur had dodged the question upon their first meeting.

Truth is, music incites almost a childlike wonder within him - it's always been that way. Wilbur thinks that, if he were to have a vice, it would probably be music. There's just something so uplifting and magnetizing about it – especially live like this, where he can see and hear and _feel_ all the components falling into place and melding together in time. Anyone can pluck a few strings, but it takes a true _artist_ to bring people together like this. To make them feel however you want them to feel.

He tells George as much while the band plays on. Losing himself within his own explanation as he becomes once again entranced by the guitarist on stage.

A soft touch on his arm breaks his reprieve. “Do you want to dance?”

His brows shoot upwards, almost touching his hairline as he gazes at the twinkle in George's eye. Almost like he's looking at a different fucking person. “You dance,” he doesn't ask so much as state it skeptically. Arm still tingling from where George had touched it.

“Come and find out.”

***

Something shifts after that night. And Wilbur can't tell it it's good or bad.

George is still acting distant when they’re together, but it's almost like he's buzzing on the spot sometimes. Like he's holding something back giddily – trying not spill a big secret. It's irritating. Especially since Wilbur is too bloody stubborn to ask the Demon what's got his panties in a bunch.

So they spend the next few days in relative dissonance, both of them skirting around the elephant in the room without actually _knowing_ what that elephant is.

That is, until George invites him to sit on the couch, imploring him to shut his eyes and wait there while he grabs something from his closet. Something big and heavy, from the sounds of it. Wilbur allows his wings to settle either side of him – the right one falling over the side of the couch completely. He doesn’t bother hiding them here, and he secretly likes it when George runs his hands absentmindedly over his feathers while they watch T.V.

Within a few moments, the cushion next to him shifts with what he presumes is George's weight, and something solid is gently settled onto his lap. He tucks his left wing behind George, not opening his eyes again until a soft voice beside him prompts him to do so. Gazing down at the addition with intrigue.

A guitar case.

It's plain black and unassuming, yet it sticks out like a sore thumb. Calling Wilbur to come open it.

Delicately, he shifts his gaze to George. Whose expression morphs gradually from subdued excitement to sheepish as the silence stretches out. He worries at his lip, and Wilbur decides to open the case before the Demon starts sweating.

It's a beautiful instrument: an acoustic-electric hybrid, sporting a redwood body and a black neck. There's simple white pin striping running along the fretboard, and the entire base is generously coated in high-gloss clear varnish.

“I know it's not a harp or anything,” George interjects, the irony clear in his voice. “But I think it'll be an okay substitute.”

Wilbur hums. While the pin striping is a little too gaudy for his taste, on a whole the guitar is quite nice: sturdy, elegant. “Not all Angels play the harp,” he replies distractedly. The polished wood is telling of just how expensive it must have been – where did the Demon even get it from? “That's a harmful stereotype.”

There's a chuckle beside him as he finally flips it around in his grip, settling it upright to rest the neck in his left palm. Tucking the body beneath his armpit as if to play.

He strums and-… _okay._ Perhaps it should be tuned first. Can't expect all purchases to be perfect fresh out the box.

Once it's tuned up, he begins to play. Plucking the strings on instinct and instantly picking up a tune. The sound carries quite nicely across the small room, even despite the lack of furniture to buffer it. He spends the next few minutes warming up to the instrument, the Demon beside him watches him quietly. Content to just sit and bask in the mellow atmosphere.

There's something swimming in his eyes as he watches Wilbur play, something molten and tangible. Wilbur doesn't have to look to know it's there. He can _feel_ it pouring all over him.

The notes simmer a little, plucking out the same melody over and over until he's lost in the music. Lyrics of something he'd heard a few years ago find their way to his mouth, and he lets them pool out of him. Melancholy words filling his chest and overflowing, dripping with a sentiment that had been left unsaid between them for a while.

_“I hope you're okay"_

_That's just something people say_

_And if I meant every word that I ever said_

_You would probably question the life I have led_

_You'd probably think I’m an evil, broken person_

_You would be right._

_Because I went downhill at such steep incline_

_That my rearview mirror showed me only the sky_

_And I laughed about it all night_

_And I said “Hey man, isn't it poetic_

_That the sky is what we leave behind?”_

_Because I was born into the world on a silken cloud_

_And I got bored of the world before I hit the ground.’_

Almost like coming-to, he finishes the stanza and is brought back to reality. Still tucked away in the privacy of George's cheap apartment.

He can feel eyes on him as he packs up, slipping the guitar snug back into its case and bucking it closed. It's not until he glances back at George that he falters – his movements stuttering slightly at the expression etched on the Demon's face.

He’s gazing at Wilbur like he's seeing him for the first time. A mixture between bewildered astonishment and _adoration_. It strikes him hot across his chest, piercing through his ribcage and thawing things out that have been dormant for so long. Tears are welling in George's eyes, threatening to spill, and he has to physically hold himself back from wiping them away. Busying his hands by sliding the guitar case to the ground gently.

Once he’s done with that there's nothing left for him to distract himself with. George still hasn’t moved or spoken or… _anything._ Still just staring at Wilbur like he's the only thing he sees. Like he's _worthy_ of being seen.

“Thank-…”

Just as he goes to speak, George is rushing forward. Leaning into his space and resting his hand on Wilbur's cheek. He hangs there for a moment, blinking a few times against the tears. Pouring his eyes over Wilbur’s face one last time before leaning in. Their eyes slide shut as their lips meet.

Wilbur has kissed many people in his time: from mortals to Devines and everything in between. They'd always been something for him to control; some menial competition he had to win. He loved to experiment with all the different ways he could turn someone into putty in his hands, relished just how soft and _pliant_ they all were. He loved carving a piece of himself wherever he saw fit – loved how they’d _let him_. Knowing that in the end he'd never see them again, and all he'd ever be was a wild fantasy they'd made up in their minds.

This isn't like that. Quite unlike anything he's ever experienced before.

George's mouth is insistent upon his own, a far cry from pliant and submissive and it throws Wilbur for a loop. It's hot and passionate and downright _demanding_ – so much that Wilbur can do little else but cling on for the ride.

Every time he pushes, just a little bit to get the upper hand, George pushes _back._ Every time he tries to take control of the pace and speed up or slow down the little devil persists. Snagging back the control with ministrations that drive Wilbur to the point of madness: like climbing in his lap and sucking on his tongue.

Even despite the battle, Wilbur doesn’t feel crazed or even remotely interested in breaking him down. There's no motive behind any of this. It’s just how things are and he _likes it_. When George finally sighs into his mouth he doesn't regard it as a win, just a natural reaction to Wilbur tracing his hands reverently up his sides. Every labored breath and stifled moan is less of a conquest, and more of a testament to how much _both of them_ actually want this.

Once all the pent-up energy is out in the open, the kiss subdues a bit. Melding gradually from desperate to languid – but not at the expense of passion. It seems they both remember that they have all the time in the world.

With things slowed a bit, Wilbur is able to read between the lines of every lingered touch. George is communicating something, consciously or not, and Wilbur is able to pick it up price by piece.

He feels it whispered wordlessly when George runs a hand down his chest. _You are a beacon._ He feels it with every press of lips against his skin as George trails kisses down the length of his neck. _You're here, you are real._ Finally, he hears it with every breath panted against his own mouth, lingering in George's eyes as they pull away for some air. Staring hazy-eyed at one another in the dim light.

_I feel whole again. That's your fault._

***

It's six months later when Wilbur thinks he finally understands.

They're laying on their queen sized bed bathed in morning light. Wilbur's wings are fanned out across it, hanging over the edges either side. George rests on top of him, head cushioned on his chest and sleeping soundly. He'll never get over how peaceful he looks when he sleeps.

The duvet has migrated down the bed during the night, pooling at the small of George's back so only the hem of his pajama bottoms are peeking out. He's wearing a nightshirt – an awful, shapeless thing that he insists he wears because he gets cold during the night. Despite the fact that _without fail_ they somehow end up curled together like this, with his shirt riding up and the duvet kicked to the bottom. He begins to trace patterns along the bare skin where the shirt has lifted. Ensuring to keep his touch light, so as not to disturb him.

Smoking cedar pine lingers in the air – his scent has attached itself to everything they own. When they bought the new apartment things had felt foreign for the first few days. Only when the scent had settled in did Wilbur truly feel at ease.

He asked George about it once, explaining that Demons tend to smell a certain way to Angels. Asked if it was the same the other way round.

“I don't know,” he’d shrugged, not looking up from where he'd been tuning his drum kit. “You just smell like home.”

_Home._ His hands migrate further, pushing the material up as he traces along George’s spine. Wilbur had never truly considered the word before – thinking it merely to be how mortals refer to a dwelling. To him, having a home meant big attached, and being attached meant he was going to get hurt. To be willingly attached to something in that way… it was too human for Wilbur to stomach.

But when George had said it, he'd sounded so sure of himself. It made Wilbur wonder if it's something _he_ wants as well. Deep down.

He knows he likes _this:_ these quieter moments where everything is soft and simple. Makes him entertain the thought that maybe the humans have it all figured out after all.

His hands are entirely beneath his shirt now: tracing gently over the scar tissue that lines George's shoulder blades, the only reminder he has of what he once was. It'd been raining the night George had let him see them. Wilbur distinctly remembers placing a gentle kiss on both the slits adorning his back, as well as the teasing he'd endured afterwards for being a softie.

Perhaps that's what ‘home' is to the two of them. It's comfort and trust shrouded in light teasing. It's that gentle reminder to stop playing video games at 4am to come to bed. Wilbur once watched George shove the bun of a Bic Mac in his mouth and pretend it's his teeth, and yet he _still_ somehow wants to be close to him.

They may never have said so out aloud before, but it's in these quiet moments where Wilbur feels it the most.

A quiet hum sounds through the room, and Wilbur watches George stretch and blink blearily against the light streaming in through the curtains. Appearing not dissimilar to a mole rat.

“Look who it is,” Wilbur drawls, leaving his hands to rest on the small of his back. Eventually George's eyes must get used to the light, because he gazes at Wilbur tiredly for a moment. He shifts a little, moving upwards so he can reach Wilbur's neck, before nestling there without another word. Evidently wanting to sleep some more.

Just to be childish, Wilbur begins poking at the other's sides. Giggling at the way he squirms. Feebly, George pushes at his chest, mumbling something unintelligible.

“Hm?” Wilbur stops poking him, leaning down to nose at the crown of his head to try and hear him better when it's repeated.

“Warm,” is all he's able to pick up. He relaxes his neck with a smile, allowing his head to fall back against the pillow.

“You really are like a snake.”

Wilbur's voice is low yet clear in the morning air, still a little gravely from sleep. “What?” George asks, lifting his head up slightly. His brows furrow, a valley forming between them and Wilbur has a strange urge to kiss it.

He does. Relishing the way the skin smoothens out beneath his lips. “Nothing, Angel-face.”


End file.
